


It Rains Every April 10th

by honestlyfrance



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Depression, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Service Dogs, Swearing, bereavement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:14:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23972125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honestlyfrance/pseuds/honestlyfrance
Summary: "I love you, baby," Sam had spoken, three words so sweetly spoken, an angel could've said it, and Bucky wouldn't mind if that meant that he had crossed to the other side and reached heaven, because it was Sam Wilson.Bucky had twirled Sam once, the two of them sharing a laugh before he pulled the man closer by the waist. "I love you too, honey," he replied, making sure to put in much eye contact, to let his own eyes send the message his heart failed to say.ORA sneak peek in the life of Bucky Barnes and Sam Wilson to know the real reason why they think April 10 was a bad date.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson
Comments: 26
Kudos: 32





	It Rains Every April 10th

**Author's Note:**

> For my Bad Date square! For the life of me, I can't write fluff, but baby steps! Today is just not that day... So have the complete opposite of the fills for the Bad Date square you usually read :D Tell me what y'all think ♡

Depression hits like a wave on a cliffside — sometimes you see it coming, sometimes you didn’t see it, and sometimes you just let it happen. It sometimes gnaws at your skin, always there, but more of a ghostly hand hovering over you; there’s that presence but you think you don’t have enough proof to prove it existed. Times like these you try your best to move but you become unmotivated, absolutely immobile except for the moments your body decides to exhaust itself for unrelated things you shouldn’t be doing. It takes a toll on you you wouldn’t even realize, and even then, who else realized it? You’re just tired. You don’t cry. You’re just tired. 

It’s moments before dawn that the rain began to pick up, basking the entire scenery in a state of loneliness and tranquility, and it made everything more silent than before. Birds weren’t chirping, and all anyone could hear was the deafening downpour outside their windows. The bedroom is blanketed in blue lighting from the grey clouds outside, and the rain slips down the French windows and the slanting skylight. Bucky Barnes laid in bed, staring solemnly towards his windows with disdain, buried under his duvets. There are bags under his eyes, but they’re almost faint, and there’s a red tinge to his eyes, but he doesn’t feel discomfort from it; he felt as if whole, if anything. He’s just tired.

Bucky lets his eyes flutter shut, grunting as he buried himself deeper into the sheets, pulling his pillows to envelop every side of his body: his back, his chest, his head, his feet. He wanted _warmth_. It was too early to wake up. The faint smell of something icky wafted through the cold air and suddenly, all Bucky could think of was how slow time had passed by — he woke up before two in the morning, but his body felt as if it was midnight. It was dawn now, and he still hasn’t sat up. He rose and went, his consciousness blanking ever so often, and all he could think of was how numbed he was to the point that he couldn’t remember how many times he slept and woke up.

Bucky sat down in his tub, the cool but refreshing water pouring from the faucet. The bathroom was dim-lit and the orange lights bounced off of every reflective surface in the room. Here he sighed, watching the excess water go into the side drain, setting his head on the side of the tub. All he could ever hear was the sound of gushing water and the ache of his own heart, and there's that dread of going downstairs and actually living.

His dog suddenly pitter-pattered through the open door, suddenly sitting by the side of the tub. Bucky lazily looked back at the golden retriever. His eyes were barely opened as he spoke, “Roger, go back outside…” His voice was gruff and worn down, like a path down memory lane; so distant and faded that even the memory couldn’t recognize itself.

Bucky turned his head back towards the ceiling, and with a heavy sigh, he grabbed the tub by the side with his one hand and slid himself with a strong push, he lowered himself under the water, and there he felt free. There was nothing waiting for him down there and there was nothing worried for him down there. All he had in that tub was himself and his thoughts, and all his thoughts said to him was, “ _It’s April 10. You need to wake up._ ”

He needed to wake up. 

Breakfast was quiet, and with every long drawn-out bite of his cereal was a much longer painful dread in Bucky’s chest, one that swallowed in itself for centuries before and centuries more. It’s a sickening twist to the plot and there’s nothing more emptying than feeling drowsy from one’s own solemn adventure. The outdoor lights filtered through the drawn open blinds and there they go, dancing on tabletops and the clean dishes left on the open sink like ballerinas, and there’s a piece of accompanying music that was dulled to a filtered flute of wind by the rain; water dripped against the windows and made the room look bluer than before, and the white walls seem to close in on Bucky, but he just kept on eating in his bathrobe, his one leg propped up on another chair as Roger sat on his hind legs beside him.

Bucky sighed with his mouth full as he waved his dog off. Roger goes dashing through the open doorway and into the other which led to the expansive library. Bucky didn’t want to look out into the window and see how beautiful the morning was, now that there was something so elegant to see when the whole world just drained itself out of color, and it all seemed unfair — a misuse of justice. Roger brought in a book, and Bucky couldn’t even look at the cover. _The Masque Of The Red Death_. His hands gripped the pocketbook, his mind fuming and his lips searing at the seams; he fumbled with the book and his muffled sobs, and he suddenly thrashed — he threw the book across the room, successfully breaking another picture frame that was hung on the opposite wall. Roger whimpered and set his head on Bucky's stomach, pawing at his hands until all Bucky gripped was the dog’s coat, gently and softly, feeling his heart squeezed out of life but he’s lightheaded. He’s not better now, but he feels like he _could_ be. 

Bucky whispered something to Roger's ear and he pets him, even gave him an extra treat. 

It’s an unmistakable kind of brokenness that is almost like a “tell,” you know something is wrong, but they don’t fess up to it. Ending up with a game of cat and mouse, and both of you are chasing each other's tail, not knowing who is the culprit and the victim; both of you victimized yourselves because it was the only solution left. You weep at the mess you’ve made and that’s all that you can do. It’s all anyone’s ever done these days, and you shouldn’t apologize for it.

People should start screaming from the top of their rooftops and get that anger out of them, find a victim to mesmerize, and leave them for dead or nothing. Bucky wanted to drive off to the nearest cliff and scream his guts out, vomit his spine out, and just gouge his eyes out, because in a world where the skies seem bleaker — it wasn’t a world. It sounded like a page ripped off of the book of legends, burnt to a crisp, never to be seen again, and Bucky had hoped he would never see it, but then again, here he lies, almost dead and unhinged, mesmerized by the beauty of death to the point that he’d let her sleep in his room for the night.

Bucky would let death spend the night and pick at his skin, peeling it off of him like some sadist, wear his skin, even — let him have a bit of _life_ , even if he was a puppet. There’s nothing more shameful than thinking of such atrocities, yet what other choice does he have? He couldn’t handle it anymore. He was pained, mourning, and helpless. If an angel went down from the skies and told him to jump off a cliff, Bucky would jump off a bridge; if a second angel came down and told him to get lost at sea, Bucky would get lost in a swamp; if a third angel came down for him and told him to suck a dick, Bucky would suck a shoe. Bucky thought he didn’t deserve the gentleness of suffering, so he let himself hurt worse than what was anticipated. So, he lost his leg, had another prosthetic, then he’d lost his sanity. 

Out on the couch at the back porch that overlooked the vast fields of his property, he could feel the tiniest of pinpricks of rain whipping him in his face if it was not for the wall of crawling vines dangling from his rooftop. He set his foot on the coffee table, and right beside him was Roger, resting his head on Bucky’s lap. Bucky’s hand ran through his dog’s fur as he read another random chapter of _Pride and Prejudice_. He couldn’t say. He didn’t even notice. He’s been so out of it, he wouldn’t even realize the title of the book until he’d put it back into the bookshelf. Bucky’s mind had been empty except for anxious thoughts that he had become numb with the idea of surprises. He left his phone buried in the backyard because he didn’t want any unexpected calls. 

His hands were calloused over the years of stressful work, eventually leaving him with thin and rugged fingers that feel pinpricks almost every second. His hands were once a thing of beauty, and ever since the accident, he couldn’t think much of it. All Bucky now wanted was to decay faster, to lie down on the grass, and feel moss crawl on his skin and declare himself one with the earth. Now _that_ would be a thing of beauty. 

His breath was slow and steady, turning into nothingness a few seconds here and then. Holding onto his breath was the only thing he knew he could hold onto and never let go of. It was the only thing he remembered to be tangible. It didn't use to be like this. Then again, April 10 didn't exist back then.

Sam Wilson would walk into the back porch right now, holding two mugs of hot chocolate, because he _adored_ the rain with his whole heart, and as much he loved nature, that's how much he loved Bucky Barnes. Sam would now then sit right beside his husband and they'll stay snuggled together, bare legs intertwined together, and they'd be giggling like children at the warmth in their chests.

"Look, baby," Sam had said, pecking a quick kiss on Bucky's lips. Bucky's eyes would be overcome with stars that he'd become dizzy at the sensation, " _Rain_. Do you think it'll rain all day? The weatherman said only a 30% chance,"

Bucky had hummed into Sam's cheek, feeling the way Sam's skin tasted right on his lips. Bucky's mouth would trace the edges of Sam's jaw and the man would let him do more. "Maybe. Perhaps," he had breathed out, "Do you want to stay like this forever?"

Sam had laughed into Bucky's mouth, leaving another kiss that lasted a second longer now. It was sweet, and there were stars dispersing in their hearts. "What else am I going to do all day?"

They had spent the whole day like this: sneaking kisses like teenagers and sipping on hot chocolate like children. Their hearts grew as the rain poured stronger. The pitter-patter of downpour had drummed against their roof like bullets and all they could feel is how safe they were in the war with each other's arms wrapped around each other. It was their own kind of shield, and it was _perfect_.

That kind of day was now replaced with Bucky and Roger. Bucky would read a random book as Roger would look out into the backyard, longing to run around the rain, but Bucky needed Roger right beside him, and that's what the dog shall do.

With staggered breaths, Bucky inhaled the fresh scent of pine trees and rain, and it smelled just the same. Home. Sweet. Painful. All of this was a flurry of madness in Bucky's heart, and it hurts how he couldn't even think straight without feeling _it_.

By eight in the morning, Bucky was back in the drawing-room, the curtains of the French windows pulled back to show the ongoing downpour of April rain, the first rain in a few months. He sat on the armrest of the cushioned chair beside the dead fireplace, and he hears it now, the crackle of firewood as Sam stirred the fire, a grin on his lips as music wavered in the background. Bucky had played the old record, some old song he knew from the 1930s playing in the background.

Sam had stood up and rubbed his hands together. He wore Bucky's white sweater. It looked better on Sam anyway. As the music played in the background, Bucky would then grab Sam from behind, ensuing to lift him backward and to the middle of the drawing-room. Their laughter would fill the air, making the mansion feel _alive_. Bucky would twirl Sam in his arms then set him down, facing each other to steal another kiss, their hearts filled to the brim with supernovas of all kinds, and there's that ache in there knowing that they'd have this _every day_.

With hands barely intertwined and chests together, they began to catch each other's lips with their own. They taste the sweetness of the breakfast they had and they feel the warmth of their cheeks. The rain continued to pour in the background and it blurred the music, but they didn't mind. The rain had always been so special to them. It was _always_ special to them.

As the fire continued to crackle, their hands began to trace the skin of their lover, and it's all too surreal a painting that they would begin to frame the moment. They had wanted to ingrain the moment in their minds just like the moment they had had yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. They wanted to ingrain the memory of the other _so badly_ that they'd forget themselves if it meant the other would be etched into the stars. 

"I love you, baby," Sam had spoken, three words were spoken so sweetly, an angel could've said it, and Bucky wouldn't mind if that meant that he had crossed to the other side and reached heaven, because it was _Sam Wilson._

Bucky had twirled Sam once, the two of them sharing a laugh before he pulled the man closer by the waist. "I love you too, honey," he replied, making sure to put in much eye contact, to let his own eyes send the message his heart failed to say.

Sam had nodded — _understood_ the tension in the air. They had snuck another kiss like the children they are, giggling into each other's necks.

Roger was pawing at Bucky's sweatpants, and the man is now out of his trance. He now stood in the middle of the room, his fingers weaved around the pages of the book he held. His eyebrows furrowed in surprise, his fingers only gripping tighter, crumpling the pages messily. He fixed himself, almost hesitantly, and Roger sat on his hind legs, headbutting Bucky.

Bucky gave Roger a few scratches, and then they let the silence of the room echo. There was no fire crackling. There was no classical music. The grandfather clock in the corner of the room ticked loudly, almost like a bang, and when it was the stroke of nine in the morning, it rang. _It rang so loudly._

The April rain continued to pour maddeningly as if seducing death to come right at the Barnes-Wilson household. It could've been bullets that have been firing. The immaculate rods of rain hit against the walls of the house as if drunk men finding their way home. The windows on the second floor of the East Wing shook as if being hit by waves; it rattled in the darkness, so Bucky had pulled the curtains open, tying the curtains at the side, Roger following diligently right behind him. 

Here at the East Wing was a lounge area, almost like a living room. There was a table each under the windows, locked wooden cabinets at the side of the wall, and couches and coffee tables about. This was a favorite of Sam's. He liked how when he went up the grand staircase, the lounge would be the first thing to meet him. The balcony was even prettier, but he liked the corner window even more. 

Bucky stood before this window, his bathrobe almost slipping from his shoulder as the window kept on smacking the wall. This window always had a loose latch, but Bucky never fixed it. He didn't feel like it; he didn't want to disturb _Sam's_. As he looked out the open window, the rain pricked his face with chilling needles, but he was only bothered slightly. His eyes settled on a blurred barn on the edge of their property; it was where they stored their stock and gardening supplies. They had once planned to build their own farm, but it never jumped out of the blueprints. 

Sam had walked over to him, a sniper in his hands. Bucky almost jumped when Sam tried to neck him, but they only shared gentle smiles when they met eyes, ducking against each other's kisses as if they were embarrassed children. Their smiles were wide, and the rain had stopped. The blue sky never wavered here in England and they knew it wouldn't stop soon; it's why they stayed for so long.

"Pardonnez moi, babe," Sam had said, and Bucky had moved aside, watching Sam set up the rifle on the table, leaning over it to get into position, "There's a target there on one of those trees—" Out in their vast backyard was a line of trees, and it was almost out of range, but Sam was stubborn, wanted a 20m range, and of course, Bucky had gotten it for his honey, "—and each one I get, you have to reward me,"

Bucky had perked up at that, his eyebrows shooting upward as a smirk graced his lips. He snaked an arm around Sam's waist, fixing himself so he can bend over him. Sam snorted at that, almost chortled when Bucky whispered in his ear, " _Am I the reward_?"

Sam had finally leaned back with a laugh, and Bucky still couldn't believe — couldn't _fathom_ how he got so lucky, how the stars had aligned so perfectly so the universe could give them this grace, how the universe gave them this sliver of mercy. It was a gift from heaven above and the Devil had successfully been slain. This love _survived_ and that's all they wanted to hear about.

Achilles and Patroclus can move aside, Bucky and Sam are the heroes now. Their love had turned fruitful from wrong to right, and the whole world should say it. _Viva la love_! Long live these two idiots, who have found paradise on the road home and who had decided that they'd build one right where they met each other. The stars have spoken, have you not heard? _You may now kiss the groom_. Was it not a choir of angels?

Sam had hummed into Bucky's mouth, and they shared a stifled laugh, enjoying each other's presence. Their hands were wrapped around each other's waists and all they wanted right then was to melt into each other's touch, never wanting to let go. They have a forever to go through and another more, and they just love the fact that they'd do this all over again with their best friend. It's so crazy — It's amazing! 

Roger was barking at Bucky, and now he’s back to reality. His face was damp with rainwater and his shirt was wet at the collar — shame; he had just put that on. 

Bucky finds feeling in his hands and finally shuts the window closed, and now he closed his eyes, took a moment to actually listen to the sound of the downpour, the way pearls drop on a piano. It was melodic and at the same time, destructive, and that was the only reason he loved the rain. Adoring nature was not one of Bucky’s best suits, and yet he believes in _science_. He believed in precipitation, meteors, and the phases of the moon, and all of this he couldn’t fully appreciate, not in the way Sam once did. Sam liked rain because he could run through the rain and be happy in it; Sam liked meteors because they’re like moonlight stuck in the sky; Sam liked the different phases of the moon because it made him remember that even if something looks different one time, it’s still the same thing.

Bucky didn’t even realize the time, nor that there were tears streaming down his cheeks, nor that he had sat down on the floor curled into a ball. Roger had already brought to Bucky a book, his chew toy, and a mirror. The mirror was still in Roger’s mouth, and Bucky couldn’t help but choke on a sob, his shoulders tensing as his breathing hardened, because there in that mirror was someone he couldn’t recognize. The man had dark eye bags and never shaved in months, nothing like the man Sam had loved, nothing like the man Sam _married_. Bucky whimpered, even more, his hands turning into fists as he clutched the fabric of his sweatpants. 

“Roger…” Bucky whined, his breath hitching as Roger whimpered, dropped the mirror on his lap, and pushed the book closer to his human. Bucky looked back at the book. _The Masque Of The Red Death_. _Sam's book_. Bucky banged his head against the hardwood floor, Roger opting to lie down beside his human, “R… Roger… I-... I _can’t_ , Steve, _I can’t leave him_. He ca-can’t leave _like this_ …” His hand found themselves running up and down on Roger’s coat, “I can’t lose _more_ …”

Roger stood up and pitter-pattered elsewhere, probably to get more items that he thought could make Bucky feel better. As his dog disappeared, Bucky heard faraway footsteps come closer to him, and he had to close his eyes tight to brace himself. He couldn't handle this. _Not again._

Sam had wiped away the tears running down Bucky’s lips, clicking his tongue as he knelt beside his husband. “Oh, baby…” he whispered under his breath, laying right beside him on the floor. They stayed like this, close in proximity and their hearts even closer, basically intertwined forever, “What happened? Did you break a vase again?” Sam’s voice was so soft and melodic that Bucky just wanted to dance to every word he makes, whatever it may be, just something to dedicate to the most amazing man he knew, “It’s alright. We can always buy a new one,”

Bucky shook his head hastily, trying his best to hold his sobs. He couldn’t admit it to Sam, not when Sam had been hurt for so long — Sam’s scars ran deeper than the ones on Icarus’s back, and those used to be the most gorgeous wings that graced the sky. “It’s April 10 again,” Bucky choked, barely above a whisper as his hands curled under his chin, couldn’t bear to look Sam in the eye, “Why is it always so soon?”

Sam smiled and looked back at Bucky as if he said the most adorable thing in the world. “You’re right. Vases are overrated anyway,” he whispered back, and Bucky couldn’t believe it — _refused_ to acknowledge it, “Let’s just stop replacing the things we break. Is that okay, baby?”

“No,” Bucky choked, shaking his head like a scorned child, “No, I don’t want to—” he shuddered, “—I don’t want you to leave,”

“I won’t leave soon, Buck,” Sam spoke, running a hand across Bucky’s cheek, and all seemed fine. Sam’s hand was so near Bucky’s lips he could just go sneak a light kiss. Sam’s thumb caressed Bucky’s lips, earning a whine from the man, “Besides… I have so much to do, still. I haven’t finished reading the Odyssey. I haven’t sent out my art pieces for my first gallery, _man_ , I’m so hyped for it. Are you excited? I can’t even believe it, six years of working up the courage to and— Oh, and the gun range, I haven’t set it up yet. Also, _the farm_ , I’ve been looking for goats for ya, you dork. And a little something-something for our anniversary—”

“—a painting of our wedding,” Bucky sobbed, bringing a hand to his lips to cut off his crying, but the wall has broken down, and all he could feel was _pain, pain, pain_ , “You were painting us in suits instead of our uniforms when we eloped,” he shook his head, and Sam only smiled at him, eyes so full of life and joy, it’s almost incomprehensible, “Yeah— Yeah, I saw. That’s where I saw _you_ — oh my God, you _died_ there, Sam, _you died,_ ”

Sam, honest to God, _laughed_ , so full of life, and happiness, and life, and emotions, and life, and magic — Sam was so _full_ and here he was, laughing at Bucky’s face as if he had just told the funniest joke ever. “Oh my God,” and there they were, the last words he spoke to Bucky that afternoon, haunting him like a scar, forever there and never forgotten, “We really did choose a bad date to get married on, like, we could’ve gotten married the next year on the same _day_ but—” he shrugged, almost jokingly and teasingly as Bucky started to hyperventilate, “—who thought it was a great idea to get married A.S.A.P.B.” he quirked an eyebrow, “As soon as possible, baby?”

Bucky breathed hard and fast, sitting up so he could steady his breathing better. Sam turned to lie on his back, smiling back at Bucky, as if waiting patiently for the man to swoop in and pepper more kisses. Bucky shook his head, breathing in through his nostrils, holding it for a few seconds just like his therapist told him so. “ _Don’t_ ,” he whimpered out, letting go of the breath he was holding, but he couldn’t do it; doesn’t have the ability to let it go for so long, and that’s why he _clings_ in his sleep, “Sam, _don’t_. Please. I love you. You wanted to get married on April 10th,”

Sam shrugged, his mouth quirking downwards for a moment before he showed off his pearly whites. “You know it wasn't an accident, Bucky,”

Bucky wheezed, shutting his eyes closed. “ _I wish it was,_ ”

“How could we know he was a hitman?”

Bucky sighed, breathing out as he looked up at the ceiling. “ _I should’ve known,_ ”

“ _No_. No, no, no. Don’t say that. We retired from Avenging,” Sam shrugged off, waving a hand as he said it, “We were supposed to let our guard down. It was breathtaking wasn’t it,” but Bucky only sobbed into his own hands, “We had the best years in this safe house, I’m so glad it was you, Bucky,” and there goes his smile, so bright that it could light up a whole city, making it feel alive after decades of living dull, “I love you, you know that? Of course you do. And so what if April 10 was a bad date? No one would've known it was,”

Bucky sniffled, shaking his head as he wiped his own tears away. “ _Steve knew_ ,” he spoke under his breath.

“He didn’t know.”

Sam snickered and sat up, setting a hand on Bucky’s knee. Sam forced Bucky to meet his eyes by catching the latter’s jaw with a hand. His lover’s glare was enough to send shivers down Bucky’s spine, and it felt good — amazing even. It felt so _amazing_ to have someone to look down on him with pity absent in their eyes, and Sam’s eyes were a beautiful ocher that challenged the most gorgeous forests. Bucky _adored_ that. Bucky adored how Sam’s eyes were always compared to nature because he _was_ a piece of nature’s natural art gallery. Oh, but the glare? Even better. _Be mad at me. Throw a chair at me. Hit me. I deserve your anger. I deserve the worst of you_ , Bucky wanted to say, but all Sam did was scoot closer, settle into Bucky’s lap, and catch his baby’s lips with a softness they have yet to achieve, _and it was this one_.

The kiss was languid and almost teasing in nature, and it was just to feel again, to remember what it felt like to love. Sam played with Bucky’s hair with the tips of his fingers, untying the knots and just messing it up like he always does. Sam’s other hand was caressing Bucky’s jaw and all the latter had to do was open his mouth and let Sam entrance. Sam didn’t, and Bucky remembered. _Take it slow. I don’t want to rush. I just want your lips, not your tongue. I don’t want your bed, I want your love_ , Sam had said that night they first kissed, April 10, some decade ago, and it felt so good to look back at that moment, it felt so good to remind himself how good it was to just _love_.

Roger came back and Bucky was now calm. Roger had a jacket hanging on his back and Bucky’s spare phone in his mouth. Bucky looked back at the trail of items Roger had left at his wake: a few more shirts, a spoon for some reason, and more books. Bucky laughed a little at that, gave him more scratches, and took the burner phone from Roger’s mouth. When his friends knew Bucky banned every phone in the house to the backyard, Natasha Romanoff gave him the burner phone for reasons. _Sam was my friend too,_ she said with tears aching to be released, _It’s difficult, and I’m not good with grieving. And neither are you. So… What do you say, Soldat? Will you do this for Sam? For your friends? For us?_

Bucky dialed the one number on the phone, put it against his ear as Roger settled in his lap. It rang a few times, but it was answered.

There were whispers in the background. “ _Hey. Who is this?_ ” It was Natasha.

“Hey…” Bucky whispered, toying with a book beside him, “Can you come over?”

Some silence. “ _Hey, is this Bucky? Buck, that you_?” It was Sharon Carter.

Bucky listened to their voices for a moment, nodding as a smile formed on his lips. He whimpered for a moment before choking on a sob. “Yeah. I’m sorry,” he mustered out.

“ _Okay. I forgive you. We forgive you. Do you want us to come to you?_ ”

“Yeah. Yes… Sam… Sam wanted to throw a party on the anniversary. I thought…”

“ _No, no. That’s good. Send us the guest list. We’ll bring food and wine, you just go dress up._ ”

The line ended there when Bucky said goodbye.

Outside Sam’s favorite window was pouring rain. The dirt path leading to the estate would be muddy and the overgrown grass shall smell nice, and that’s all what Bucky needed because their house wasn’t the best, and it definitely wasn’t the place they had the most memories at, but it was _theirs_. The windows were theirs, the dining room was theirs, the porch was theirs, and the backyard was theirs. As the rain continued to pour, Bucky fell silent, his mind empty but his heart full.

Baby steps.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @honestlyfrance


End file.
